


unexplored, unusual (& frighteningly beautiful)

by ilyasomina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, CIPA Disease, M/M, Minor Violence, Season/Series 04, Soulmates, Sword of Michael (Supernatural), Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26823088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilyasomina/pseuds/ilyasomina
Summary: “Hell didn’t affect you,” Castiel says, feeling like he’s missing a significant piece of a jigsaw puzzle. “Why?”“Couldn’t,” Dean clarifies. “I can’t feel physical pain.” He pauses, staring at Castiel with an indecipherable expression, before he adds, “You should’ve left me there.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 62





	unexplored, unusual (& frighteningly beautiful)

**Author's Note:**

> me, patting this fic gently on the roof: this baby can hold so much dean-centric trauma.
> 
> (there is a playlist that goes along with this fic that you can find [here on spotify!)](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/45Q0WlfrXaVsSPCc5Q4tcj?si=SQr1aHJhRe2nowOGA70dmA) title from "you are a frighteningly beautiful wild thing" by nikita gill.

When Castiel pulls Michael’s sword out of the flaming pits of Hell, it is with the shocking realization that Hell has not affected the sword in the slightest.

At least, from what Castiel can see. The sword (whose name is Dean Winchester, and who looks surprisingly normal in all consideration of the circumstances) has a blinding brightness for a soul, and it is not dampened or destroyed in any way. It is startling for Castiel, after slashing his way through darkness and death and souls that look as though they’ve been clawed apart by their very owners, to find such a brightness amongst the shadows of Hell.

He wraps his hands around Dean Winchester and hauls him out of Hell with a strength he didn’t know he had, feels the way the soul beneath his fingertips simmers under skin, as though it were just barely contained. It is vivid and dazzling, and brings Castiel close to tears. He has never seen a soul so brilliant, and for a moment, he is overcome with honor that he has been given the task of retrieving it, of safeguarding and keeping a watchful eye on it.

His orders from above had been to retrieve Dean and deposit him back into his grave, a shallow thing dug into earth and watched over by a crude wooden cross. Castiel thinks, perhaps, it may be cruel to make a man who had just spent upwards of forty years in Hell crawl out of his own grave- but orders are orders, and so he places Dean gently into his decaying wooden coffin. He snaps his fingers and the forest around the grave quakes and falls, the earth shaking violently, only coming to a standstill when Dean Winchester’s eyes bat open and he takes in a gasping, shaky breath.

He watches Dean drag himself out of the dirt, hands steady and sure, and when he crests above ground he simply lays there for a moment, taking in the blue sky and gulping in lungfuls of fresh air. He watches Dean gather his bearings, take in his surroundings, and find his way due north. He moves with purpose, like he knows exactly where he's going and what he needs to do, although Castiel can feel the hesitancy coming off him in waves- most likely because he doesn't know what pulled him out of Hell, and he doesn't know _why_ it did so. It didn't seem like that was going to stop him, though.

Dean arrives at an old dusty gas station, with a single pump and a small store. There's nobody inside, and Castiel watches Dean press his face to the dirty window to double check before punching in the glass of the door to break in like it's nothing. His hand slices open on a sharp edge, but Dean barely blinks- Castiel supposes after Hell, a cut to the hand is nothing to the man.

Dean moves about the store with ease, swallowing down two bottles of fresh water and eating a protein bar with maximum efficiency as he begins filling a plastic shopping bag from behind the counter with bottles of water and food. He pauses when he passes a mirror beside a sunglasses display, and Castiel watches him lift the sleeve off his left shoulder, revealing the freshly scarred handprint from Castiel lifting him out of Hell. 

Castiel’s palm throbs, and his fingertips tingle when Dean touches it gently, almost reverently, his eyes suddenly dark. He stands there before the mirror for a long time, matching his fingers up with the scar Castiel left. Outside, there’s the rumble of a car passing by from somewhere far away, and that’s the only thing that seems to finally shake Dean out of his daze and get him moving again.

 _Castiel,_ a voice says in his head, echoing like bells, and he pinpoints it as Naomi’s. He hums to indicate he’s listening, keeping his eyes on Dean as he hotwires a rusty old car parked outside the store. _Have you retrieved the sword?_

 _Yes,_ he replies.

_How does he look? How damaged is his soul?_

Castiel thinks about it for a moment. _He seems to be okay._

_Okay as in recovering well?_

_Okay as in he has no damage to recover from._

There’s silence, and Castiel can hear the whispers of the other angels conversing at his words. It is quite a shocking thing to hear. 

_How is that possible?_ Naomi asks. _What did he look like in Hell?_

 _His body was destroyed physically, but despite that his soul is untouched,_ Castiel explains. He watches Dean drive the car over highways and through towns, flitting in and out to make sure he’s alright. Dean seemed to have a destination in mind, somewhere he was determined to reach. _He was not… damaged. The trials of Hell seemed to have absolutely no affect on him._

The angels murmur in surprise. A new voice, Zachariah, sounds clearly amongst them. _But the first seal was broken, Castiel. Hell had to have broken him somehow._

Castiel is, as he finds himself often these days, at a loss for words. _His soul is perfectly intact, and he is not physically harmed in the slightest._

 _Castiel,_ Naomi cuts in sharply. _We need to be sure he was the one who broke the seal, or we pulled him out for nothing. You need to confirm he was broken in Hell._

 _How?_ Castiel asks.

 _You need to make contact with him, and get him to speak on what happened,_ Zachariah says. _I trust it won’t be difficult; humans seem to enjoy talking about themselves._

Castiel watches Dean pull into the parking lot of a deserted looking motel off of the freeway. It’s nearly night now, and when Dean gets out of the rusty old car he wobbles on his feet like it’s difficult for him to stand due to exhaustion. Castiel briefly considers making himself known so he can heal Dean’s fatigue, but thinks better of it when Dean pounds on the door of one of the motel rooms, and someone else immediately opens the door to let him inside.

From an outsider's point of view, it would seem as though Dean’s brother Sam Winchester is more concerned with Dean’s wellbeing than Dean himself is. Perhaps he truly is, because once Sam had gathered Dean in his arms for what looked to be a bone-crushing hug, he is almost immediately pushing Dean to sit on the edge of the ratty looking motel bed, moving with precision around the room and gathering first aid supplies, as though he’s lived this scene a hundred times. 

“How’d you get out?” Sam asks quietly as he cleans Dean’s hand, the one he had sliced open on the window’s glass earlier. The blood had stopped hours ago, but the gash was large and deep, crusting along the edges and looking like it was well on it’s way to already becoming infected.

Dean is silent for a long minute, doesn’t even flinch when Sam douses the gash in hydrogen peroxide, the dried blood bubbling sickly. Eventually, he says, in a gravelly voice that sounds as though he had gone years without using it, “I think someone pulled me out.”

Castiel’s heart thumps in his chest strangely. Sam, focused intently on wiping away all the dried blood and dirt from the wound, doesn’t even look up.

“Who- or what- has the power to pull you out of Hell?” He asks.

“I don’t know.” Dean shifts and uses his free hand to reveal the handprint on his shoulder. Sam glances up and does a double-take at it, eyes huge. “Whatever it was, it made sure to leave it’s mark.”

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam breathes out, worry flooding his features. “Any other injuries I should know about?”

Dean looks like he’s genuinely thinking about it. He sort of wiggles his limbs around, moves his head back and forth, rolls and bends his joints as though he were taking inventory of his entire body. “I think my feet are blistered,” He announces finally.

Sam sighs as though he were long-suffering, and after bandaging Dean’s hand carefully, he begins removing Dean’s shoes and socks to check him for injuries. Castiel finds this curious, especially when Sam runs his hand under the arch of Dean’s foot and pulls it away bloody. When he shows it to Dean, Dean looks surprised at the sight of it.

“Is this just from blisters? Did you trip over something? Step on glass?” Sam asks, and Dean shakes his head, taking on the sheepish expression of a child being scolded over something they had already been warned about. Sam sighs again and sets about cleaning the blood off of Dean’s feet, as though he expected this to happen.

They lapse into a familiar silence. As Sam disinfects his blisters, Dean rolls his left shoulder a few times, looking lost in thought. When he reaches up to gently touch it through the fabric of his shirt, Castiel’s fingertips tingle again like they had in the gas station store earlier.

-:-

Watching the Winchesters attempt to contact him is amusing to say the least. They begin by back tracking to Dean’s gravesite, which Castiel has to assume is traumatizing for Dean, but the man doesn’t look at all bothered peering into the broken remains of his own wooden coffin. If anything, he seems more affected by the impact of Castiel placing him in it; the circular destruction spanning almost half a mile out in every direction, trees and plants brought to the ground as though a bomb had gone off.

There’s nothing to discover amongst the remnants of the gravesite, and so they trek steadily onwards, contacting another man named Bobby who seemed to have a library of knowledge on all things non-human. Castiel watches them pour over book after book, spend days reading through texts that he knows for a fact will have nothing on him or what’s happened to Dean.

Bobby suggests contacting a psychic. Dean seems to think that’s unnecessary and childish; Castiel can’t help but agree. A psychic had once tried to summon him over a hundred and fifty years ago, and she’d ended up a smoking husk of a human after he’d appeared before her.

“We don’t need to bother anyone with this,” Dean says, and he looks frustrated. “I don’t know why we’re looking for this thing in the first place.”

It’s something he has been strangely adamant on since returning- he was resolutely not as interested in hunting down what had pulled him out of Hell as Sam and now Bobby were. He had complained the entirety of the car ride back to his grave, had fought tooth and nail to not go to Bobby’s, and was now sitting on the couch with his arms crossed like a petulant child.

“There has to be a _reason_ you were pulled out, Dean,” Sam says, for what must be the hundredth time in the past few days. His patience is unyielding against Dean’s stubbornness. “I can’t think of it being anything but a demon, and they’re not exactly known for doing things out of the goodness of their hearts.”

 _Castiel,_ Zachariah’s voice thrums suddenly. _Any updates?_

 _I have not made contact yet,_ Castiel replies, watching Dean’s mouth move as he no doubt continues to shoot down Sam and Bobby’s suggestions. _They are going to attempt to summon me._

Zachariah laughs, and the sound of it makes Castiel uneasy. _They’ll burn their eyes out of their skulls._

 _I should find a vessel,_ Castiel says, mostly thinking aloud. _If I appear human, it will be easier to approach them first._

 _Whatever you think is best, Castiel,_ Zachariah replies in a dismissive tone. _If you need to burn a few eyes out to find out if he was broken, feel free to._

Castiel finds a vessel within twenty-four hours, from a devout man in South Dakota who prays every night and has a wife and daughter. He almost immediately says yes, and Castiel wonders if he should feel sorry when the daughter asks him (or rather, her father) where he’s going just before he vanishes off the front steps of their home. 

He hovers for a moment above Bobby’s house. He can hear the voices of everyone inside, hear Sam and Bobby’s hushed whispers and the clink of beer bottles in the kitchen, can hear Dean’s gentle, even breathing from the living room. He manifests himself into the living room, just beside Dean’s sleeping form on the couch, and for the first time, takes in his physical form up close.

There hadn’t been much time to appreciate Dean’s human form when he was dragging him out of Hell, and besides, his soul had been so brilliantly vibrant, it was hard to look at much else. But up close, now, Castiel sees how the face matches the soul. Dean is handsome, with sharp features and a lithe, toned body. He’s got small wrinkles that are smoothed out in his sleep at the corner of his eyes, stubble growing on his chin, and full lips. Castiel takes it all in, and has a sudden, jarring thought that this was the face Michael would someday wear. It makes something in his chest tighten up at the thought, and he has to look away, suddenly overwhelmed in a way he has never felt before.

Across the room, there is a clattering of a glass bottle falling to the floor, and the scrape of chair legs. When Castiel looks up, Sam and Bobby are standing there, looking a mix between terrified and angry. Bobby has a shotgun in one hand, aimed directly at Castiel, and Sam’s eyes dart between Dean and Castiel, like he thinks he might have to dive to protect his brother.

“Who the hell are you, and how’d you get in my house?” Bobby demands in a gruff voice.

“I am Castiel,” Castiel replies, calmly. “I’m here to speak with Dean Winchester.”

“Why?” Sam shoots back immediately. “What do you want with him?”

It’s at this that Dean suddenly shifts, finally awake. He rolls onto his back, stretches his arms above his head, eyes still closed, and yawns. When he opens them, the first thing he sees is Castiel, and the first thing Castiel sees is an endless green galaxy.

Dean’s face twists almost comically through multiple emotions- shock, distress, terror- and finally settles on a mix of confusion and anger. Castiel wonders why the Winchester boys always seem to be angry.

“Who the fuck is this?” He asks, voice rough with sleep.

“That’s what we were just asking him,” Bobby says, shotgun still aimed at Castiel’s chest. He takes a few tentative steps forward, pointing with the gun as he adds, “You gonna tell me how you got in here without us noticing?”

“I am Castiel,” Castiel explains, shifting his gaze from the barrel of the gun back to Dean’s eyes. Dean stares back, frozen in place, and for a moment, recognition flashes in his eyes, as though he’s heard of Castiel’s name before in one of those old texts about angels and Catholicism and the existence of God. Cassiel, speed of God, angel of Saturday. “I am an angel of the Lord.”

Across the room, Bobby snorts in disbelief. Sam makes an incredulous sound, like he’s offended Castiel would even suggest something so ludicrous.

On the couch, Dean’s gaze never wavers. He simply whispers, “Prove it.”

Normally, Castiel would ignore him. Humans have no business demanding anything of an angel, especially considering how much Castiel has done for this specific one, despite Dean not even knowing it.

However, something inside Castiel submits at the resolute, unyielding look in Dean’s eyes. He inhales deeply, spreads his grace through his vessels bones and lets it simmer beneath the skin of his back, flex with the sinew of his muscles. The air hums with a high-pitched tone, and shakes as though the foundation of reality is collapsing. He can feel his wings take form, folded together to fit in the small compression of the room. Behind him, he hears Sam gasp, and the shotgun clatter to the floor.

Dean looks stunned. In the few seconds Castiel allows his wings to be seen on this realm, Dean takes them in with a look of awe, his hand twitching in his lap like he wants to reach out and run his fingers through the feathers. Castiel is surprised to find he is not entirely against the idea.

In the silent stillness that follows as his wings disappear, Castiel can just pick out Dean’s heartbeat. It’s solid and _fast_ , loudly thumping against his ribcage like the wings of a hummingbird trying to escape. He stares at Castiel, eyes enormous. By his side, his hands tremble.

“You’re an angel,” Sam breathes out, awestruck. “Angels are real.”

“Yes,” Castiel replies, breaking Dean’s gaze to look at the younger Winchester. He looks amazed, he and the other man staring at him with the amount of respect and intimidation that most humans look upon angels with.

Dean makes a noise like he’s trying to find his voice, his throat catching. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and when he opens them again his face is hardened and impassive.

“Get the fuck away from me,” He says, slowly, like he wants to be sure Castiel understands every word. It’s such a sudden statement to hear that for a moment, even Castiel looks at him in surprise. 

“What?” Castiel asks, the same time Sam begins, “Dean, what are you-”

“I don’t know who the hell you are and I don’t care,” Dean continues. He gets to his feet, raising to his full height, and Castiel is irritated to discover Dean stands a few inches taller than his vessel. Dean looms over him, looking every bit like the terrifying torturer Castiel had discovered in Hell. “You need to stay the fuck away from me from now on.”

Castiel almost doesn’t know how to respond, shocked at this sudden turn. “I'm the one who raised you from perdition,” He says, patiently. Dean rolls his shoulder at his words, and Castiel’s fingers tingle with the shadowy memory of gripping the muscle and dragging him upwards. “I saved you.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s jaw clenches tightly, and he looks everything short of furious at Castiel’s statement. “Who asked you to do that?”

“Dean,” Sam warns in a reprimanding tone.

Castiel takes in the anger radiating off of Dean, the weight of his words. Anyone else would be eternally grateful to be pulled from Hell. From never-ending suffering, torture that breaks the body down to atoms and builds it back up again just to rinse and repeat. So, why isn’t Dean thankful?

“Hell didn’t affect you,” Castiel says, feeling like he’s missing a significant piece of a jigsaw puzzle. “Why?”

“Couldn’t,” Dean clarifies. “I can’t feel physical pain.” He pauses, staring at Castiel with an indecipherable expression, before he adds, “You should’ve left me there.”

“Dean!” Sam snaps again, annoyed, but neither Dean nor Castiel pay him any attention, locked tight in each other’s gazes- one simmering with anger, one bluntly curious.

“You feel no pain?” Castiel asks. It makes sense- the way Dean hadn’t blinked after slicing his hand open at the gas station when he broke the glass, the way Sam had had to ask and check if Dean were injured anywhere else. As though Dean wouldn’t know himself; how could he, if he couldn’t feel it?

“Physical pain,” Dean repeats. “It’s a genetic disease.”

Without thinking, Castiel reaches out and takes Dean’s wrists in his hands. Dean jerks, but his strength is no match for Castiel, who keeps him in place without even trying. Bobby yells something, but Castiel doesn’t hear it. He focuses instead on channeling his grace into flames, white blue light shining from his hands as he burns Dean’s flesh beneath his palms.

Dean doesn’t even flinch. He looks more confused than anything; watching as his skin begins to smoke and furl, and the distinct, sickening scent of burnt flesh begins to take form.

“Stop it!” Sam shouts, and suddenly he’s throwing his full body weight at Castiel, only moving him because he takes the angel by surprise. Castiel blinks back to reality, feeling like he was in a dream for a moment. His hands shake, something he is absolutely not adapted to dealing with. Something he has never felt before.

Dean’s wrists sport third degree burns, the flesh sizzled off and revealing burnt muscle underneath. They’re blackened and charred, bloodied around the edges. Dean is staring at them with a look of withdrawn shock, like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. Sam grips Dean’s hands in his own, looking horrified, already yelling at Bobby to get the first-aid kit.

“You really feel nothing,” Castiel whispers, almost mystified at the discovery. Dean looks up at him, and there’s no trace of pain in his eyes; just a muted surprise, almost like he didn’t expect Castiel to do that.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Sam snarls, turning on him, eyes wet with tears. He looks furious, his whole body trembling like he was the one who was burned. “What’s wrong with you?!”

Castiel reaches out again- Sam swats at his hands to keep him away, but Castiel pushes on- and swipes his fingers over the burns. His grace hums, and Dean’s skin knits itself back together, the burns smoothing over and healing within seconds.

“I apologize,” Castiel says casually. “I had to check for myself.”

Dean rubs at his wrists as Sam stares down at them, expression distorted as he seems to struggle with a response to what just happened.

“However, this poses a serious question,” Castiel continues. He steps away from the brothers, instead circling around them slowly, taking in the way they both follow him with their eyes, never letting him out of their line of sight. “What was Hell like for you?”

Sam lets out a wounded noise, probably at the reminder of his brother suffering in Hell. Dean just looks angry again. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to ask a dude about Hell on the first date,” He snaps.

Castiel frowns. “We are not courting each other.”

“I-” Dean raises a brow at him. “Okay. It’s time for you to leave.”

Castiel considers arguing. The stairs creak as Bobby comes running down them, presumably with the first-aid kit. Sam is deliberately putting his body in front of his brother, like a shield, as though trying to keep as much distance between Dean and Castiel as possible. It’s probably for the best Castiel leaves, then, and resumes his post of watching in silence. 

“Alright,” Castiel murmurs. Dean looks surprised at his easy agreement, but Castiel doesn’t stay long enough for him to say anything else. He meets Dean’s gaze, taking in that galaxy of green one last time, and smiles as best he can in an unthreatening manner. “We’ll meet again soon, Dean.”

-:-

Over the course of the next few weeks, Castiel finds that Dean has absolutely no self-preservation skills whatsoever.

He doesn’t know why he led himself to believe otherwise, but it’s another thing to see it firsthand. He watches the Winchester boys dive back into hunting monsters, a job they excel at to an almost frightening accuracy. Ghosts, vampires, wendigos, demons- Castiel watches them take out each and every one with precision and ease.

The lack of self-preservation comes with how Dean throws himself at anything and everything, only realizing in hindsight the effects it has on his body. Castiel has seen Dean get sliced open, burned, cut, poisoned, and broken, and any other physical extremity of damage he can think of. Sam is always there to patch him, checking his full body almost clinically every single night and morning, checking for blood or wounds or angles of bones. Dean can usually tell if something is broken, from what Castiel can see- he’ll notice the strange pressure of bones out of place, or the tightness of muscles being stretched out by it- but other than that he is the equivalent of a newborn baby at attending to his own injuries. Worse, even, because at least a baby would cry out in pain.

It is one night, after a particularly brutal werewolf hunt, that Castiel is watching them and notices something that both boys do not. Sam had cleaned Dean’s injuries- a long cut along his bicep and side, and a terrific, darkening bruise on his cheekbone- and had him shower before bandaging them. Now Dean sat on the bed of their motel room as Sam showered, flipping through the television channels and looking perfectly at ease.

But Castiel sees it; first in the way Dean has to work a little harder than usual to hold up the television remote, and than when he looks closer, through his skin, sees how the little bones in his wrist have shifted, and how his radius bone looks like it’s been cleanly fractured into almost two.

Castiel frowns at this. For all Dean can recognize a broken bone, Castiel supposes the human can only notice it when the bone is clearly snapped in half, sticking up at odd angles or even pushing through the skin. Right now, however, he has no idea of the state of his wrist.

Without thinking twice, Castiel appears before Dean, standing between the television and the bed.

“Hello, Dean,” He says, and Dean nearly throws the remote control at him, jerking violently.

“Jesus _Christ,”_ Dean gasps. “Do _not_ do that again, man.”

Castiel ignores him, instead approaching him on the bed. Dean looks apprehensive at best, visibly pulling away from the angel and eyeing him warily.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” He says.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, Dean,” Castiel begins, ignoring Dean’s words. He sits gently on the edge of the bed, a non-threatening position he knows after watching Sam do it multiple times. “But your radius bone is almost broken in half.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “My what?”

“Your wrist,” Castiel clarifies. “Your left wrist is broken.”

“It is?” Dean raises said appendage to examine, twisting it back and forth. Castiel almost winces, sees the way the bones grind together sickly beneath his skin.

“Please stop that, you are making it much worse,” Castiel presses his lips together and offers up one of his hands. “May I heal it?”

Dean looks taken aback. “You can do that?”

“Of course,” Castiel says somberly. “I am an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean looks like he’s refraining from rolling his eyes, but he gingerly places his own hand in Castiel’s. When their skin touches, Castiel’s fingertips tingle with electricity. He tries to ignore it and instead slides his hand up to cover Dean’s wrist, wrapping his fingers gently around the tiny bones. He channels his grace into it, and with a tiny flash of bright light, he feels the bones shift smoothly back into their correct place, the fracture healing instantly. He reaches his grace out as an afterthought and heals anything else he notices- the torn ligament in Dean’s knee and the hairline fracture in his foot, as well as the cuts on his body and bruise on his face. 

When he pulls his hands away, Dean looks almost like he misses the touch. Castiel feels inclined to agree with him. Dean rolls his wrist back and forth again, frowning at it.

“Thanks,” He finally says, lamely, and when he looks up Castiel can’t decipher the expression on his face.

There is a few minutes of silence, of both of them simply sitting there, watching each other hesitantly, like wild animals waiting for the other one to react first. It is broken by the click of a lock and Sam opening the bathroom door to step out.

He almost slips and falls when he sees Castiel. “It’s you,” He breathes out, and Castiel is more used to the respectful look Sam gives him than the prying, curious look Dean seems to have around him. There’s a moment of unsure silence, and then when Sam’s gaze slides to Dean, he looks shocked. “Dean, your black eye is gone.”

“Huh?” Dean reaches up to paw at his face, pressing against his cheekbone. “Really?”

“How did it-” Sam approaches him quickly, taking Dean’s face in his hands and turning it this way and that. Dean swats at him like he’s an annoying bug. “What happened to it?”

“I healed him,” Castiel pipes in. Sam turns to look at him, eyes shining, and Castiel continues, “I noticed Dean’s wrist was broken, but neither of you seemed to realize it. I fixed it and simply healed his other injuries as well.”

“That’s-” Sam looks between the two of them, shocked. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s whatever,” Dean mumbles.

“Dean, do you know how helpful that is? With the way you throw yourself around, it’s a wonder you haven’t died from an untreated concussion yet.”

Dean glares at his brother, and Castiel, in a moment of worry that surprises himself, reaches out to press two fingers to the man’s head. Dean jerks back like he’s been burned, but Castiel has already seen what he needs to.

“No concussion,” Castiel confirms for Sam. “No brain damage of any kind.”

Sam looks at Castiel with an expression like he’s about to drop to his knees and praise the angel. Castiel really hopes he doesn’t. “That’s… Castiel, thank you. For looking out for Dean, I mean. It means a lot.”

Castiel can’t come out and say he needs to make sure no harm comes to the Michael sword, so he simply says, “Of course.”

Sam suddenly elbows Dean in the side. Dean shoots him a deathly glare before grumbling, “Yeah, thanks, Cas.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose at the nickname. He has never been called that before, but it sounds right coming out of Dean’s mouth, and he finds he doesn’t hate it. In fact, he thinks he likes it.

Unsure of how to react to this realization, he simply disappears, leaving the brothers blinking in his wake.

Later, he hears them arguing over Castiel’s usefulness, Sam insisting it’d be for the best to have the angel around, and Dean stubbornly stating he doesn’t want Castiel near them. It makes something new and sharp twinge in Castiel’s chest, and he has to look away for some time, until they’ve both fallen asleep, before the feeling disperses.

-:-

A hunter’s life is a lonely one, and Castiel sees that in the way Sam and Dean only have each other. There are a handful of people they see more often than once, mostly the man with the vast library of lore, Bobby, but other than that they are the only constant in each other’s lives. There is a significant bond there, one that can only form between brothers that have been to Hell and back together (and for one of them, in a literal sense). Castiel sees this in the way they move around one another, the way they care for each other, and especially in the way they tend to each other’s wounds. More often than not, it’s Sam tending to Dean’s injuries.

Castiel’s been watching them for the human equivalent of three months. To him, it is merely a blip in time compared to how long he has been alive, but it’s long enough for them that Sam’s hair has grown out and curled behind his ears, and Dean’s gained back a significant amount of muscle mass that he’d lost after Hell. No longer the malnourished, sickly looking dead body that Castiel had carefully tucked his soul back into.

Castiel has made himself known only a few times, and each time it was to heal Dean from an ailment neither of the brothers had noticed. Each time he appears, Sam thanks him profusely for his help, and Dean simply... mistrusts. It’s the only word Castiel can use to describe the way Dean acts around him- he watches Castiel like he’s an animal about to bare his teeth and snap, like Dean needs to be on edge whenever he’s around despite the fact that he obviously intends to only help the Winchesters. Castiel has given up assuming a human would be thankful for being pulled out of hell; Dean is clearly an exception to that assumption. The most Castiel can get from him whenever he appears is a grumbling “Thanks”, and only after some prodding from Sam.

One night, in December, when the winds are whistling through the bare bones of trees and the air is frigid with cold, the door to the Winchester’s motel room bursts open, and Dean stumbles in, just barely being held up by Sam. Dean’s sporting a huge, sickly looking red stain on his stomach, and it’s clear he’s injured, if the way he wobbles precariously from blood loss has anything to do with it. He collapses on the motel bed, the springs creaking under his weight, and before either of them can do anything Castiel is appearing before them, storming towards Dean.

“Castiel-” Sam starts, but Castiel ignores him, instead tearing Dean’s shirt open without any preamble, exposing the vicious looking slice in the softest part of his stomach. It’s ripped from hip to ribs, bleeding profusely and wetting all of Dean’s pale skin starkly red. Dean looks mostly disoriented, head rolling on the bed as he stares up at Castiel with surprisingly gentle eyes.

“Cas,” He murmurs, voice heavy, but there’s no pain in his voice. Why would there be? For all Dean can feel, his stomach probably just feels wet. The most he would feel if he died from this was sudden waves of dizziness, and falling into a sleep he’d never wake from.

Castiel wasn’t going to let that happen. He presses his palms directly against the wound, feels the open skin and gore beneath them, and channels all of his grace as quickly as he can into it. It’s almost too much, the palms of his vessel trembling violently as they try to contain so much power. He can feel his eyes glowing white blue, and Dean’s own eyes have a far-away quality to them, but he still looks awestruck at the sight. After what feels like too long of a second, Castiel slides his hands to the sides, resting them on Dean’s hips and revealing his whole, healed stomach.

“Fuck,” Sam suddenly says beside them, and he drops to his knees, forehead pressing against the edge of the bed. “Fucking hell. Thank you, Castiel.”

“Of course,” Castiel replies, but he’s still looking at Dean, waiting for that glassy look to leave his eyes. Dean seems to be coming back, slowly, still reeling from such a severe amount of blood loss.  
“Cas,” Dean whispers again. His hands slide weakly down to where Castiel’s own are still gripping his sides, and Dean threads their fingers together, slip sliding amongst the slick blood still coating Castiel up to his wrists. Castiel grips tight, a sudden, staggering feeling in his chest. It presses up against his ribcage and balloons upwards into his throat, and for a moment Castiel feels so overwhelmingly human.

“Thanks, angel,” Dean breathes out, and for the first time since they’ve met, his lips quirk into a crooked smile, directed at Castiel.

Castiel doesn’t respond. He’s not sure if Dean’s even aware what he’s said, because a few minutes later his eyes slip closed, and he falls into a deep sleep. Sam gets himself up and thanks Castiel a few more times, looking so desperately relieved that Castiel believes he can feel it secondhand when the younger man puts a hand on the angel's shoulder. Sam disappears into the bathroom, no doubt to clean his brother’s blood off himself, and Castiel is almost floored with the trust Sam has just put in him. He’s still clinging tightly to Dean’s hands, hovering over his half naked, bloody body like he’s worried Dean will choke out a death rattle and resume dying in front of him any second. Yes, he just saved Dean’s life, but Castiel is not one to take for granted the faith Sam has placed in his hands by leaving him alone in the room with Dean while he steps into the shower. The trust is a warm, solid thing in the place his heart would be if he had one.

 _Castiel,_ Naomi’s voice rings out, and Castiel almost lurches in surprise, the sound echoing through his head in the otherwise silent room.

_Yes?_

_Have you made contact?_

Castiel looks down at where his hands are connected with Dean’s, the soft, vulnerable part of Dean’s belly open and bare beneath him. Castiel swallows. _Yes. I believe I have gained their trust, mostly._

 _Excellent,_ Naomi says in a clipped tone. _Has the sword spoken of Hell yet?_

 _No,_ Castiel replies, a little too quickly, and he surprises himself with how defensive he sounds. He digs around inside himself for a moment, trying to pinpoint why he would sound that way, but can’t quite put his finger on it. _He hasn’t spoken much of it to anybody._

 _We need that confirmation, Castiel,_ Naomi says. _Michael cannot take his vessel if the seal was not broken first._

 _I’m working on it,_ Castiel growls. There is a surprised silence, the quiet shiftings of other angels murmuring to each other over his tone.

Then, Naomi says cooly, _Work faster, Castiel,_ and the voices disappear completely.

Eventually, Castiel slips his hands out of Dean’s limp grip and cleans away the drying blood from his skin and the sheets with a swipe of his hand. He touches his fingers to Dean’s forehead, soothes any other minor injuries he finds inside or out. He’s just retrieving the remains of Dean’s shirt from the floor, and when he looks up, Dean’s eyes are open and fixed on him.

Castiel feels frozen in place. Dean’s eyes are half-lidded and filled with sleep, and it doesn’t even seem like he’s fully awake, but they’re definitely open, and they’re definitely staring at Castiel with a look that feels almost... intimate. There’s something in those green galaxies, something heavy and implicit with emotions that Dean and Castiel have never shared together, like old lovers. Dean stares, and Castiel suddenly _wants._ He wants so badly it wraps around his grace and strains against his vessel's rib cage and tries to push its way out, towards Dean.

The shower turns off in the bathroom, a jarring reminder that they are not alone in the world. Dean’s eyelids flutter closed again, and Castiel dumps the remains of Dean’s shirt on the bed and vanishes as quickly as he can.

-:-

Castiel is closely familiar with human anatomy by the time Dean speaks to him about Hell. More specifically, he is closely familiar with _Dean’s_ anatomy; the way his skin knits itself back together, the way his bones straighten, the cords of his muscles. The knowledge was a requirement after rebuilding him from his time in Hell, and it is only strengthened as Castiel helps heal his wounds over weeks of time.

It’s after a vicious demon hunt that Dean mentions Hell. Sam hovers over Dean like this scenario had played out in his head a million times, and he had imagined all the ways Dean would break in the face of the creatures that had tortured him for decades in Hell. Even Castiel, who is admittedly lacking in human social cues, can tell that Sam is being overbearing. So he’s not surprised when Dean snaps at him that he’s going for a drive, _alone,_ and disappears out to his car.

After about fifteen minutes of driving in silence, Dean clears his throat. Castiel, who is watching him intently, recognizes he is about to be called upon seconds before Dean tentatively says, “Cas?”

Castiel forms in the passenger seat, a move that clearly startles Dean but not enough for him to jerk the car. Just enough that he jolts in his seat, his fingers twitching on the wheel.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. The hum of the engine and the quiet of the night make for a comforting combination, a noise that eases something inside him he can’t quite place. “How can I help you?” 

“I- uh-” Now that he has the angel beside him, Dean seems to be at a loss for what to say. His eyes flicker from the road to Castiel and back again. Castiel waits patiently. “How are you?”

Castiel raises a brow. “How am I?”

“Yeah, you know,” Dean’s face flushes a bit, an image that Castiel finds strangely endearing. “How have you been?”

Castiel isn’t sure what he expected when Dean called him, but he’ll take any chance to speak with him. “I’m fine. I’d be much better if you were more careful with your body.”

Dean snorts. “You sound like Sam.”

“Sam is invested in your wellbeing,” Castiel explains, serious. “I am also invested in it, but in a different way,” He reaches out, touches his fingers gently to Dean’s shoulder. It’s not the one with his handprint, but Dean understands the meaning immediately- _this_ makes him jump, the car jerking violently for a moment before he straightens the wheel quickly. “I built this body from nothing. It is important to me.”

Dean swallows, his throat moving with it. He sets his eyes on the road ahead with determination, and forces out a laugh that sounds entirely fake. “You can’t say stuff like that to me, man.”

“Why not?” Castiel asks, curious. “It’s the truth.”

Dean turns his head, finally, to look Castiel in the eye. It is once again difficult for Castiel to understand the emotion in them; it flickers and dims and flashes too quickly for him to get a hold on it, like Dean isn’t sure what he’s feeling and can’t settle on sadness or anger or something else entirely.

“Did you-” Dean clears his throat again and shifts in his seat, breaking his gaze away. “Did you, um.... What did you see in Hell?”

Castiel blinks at him. “I have never been damned in Hell.”

Dean frowns, his brow furrowing. Castiel is overcome with the sudden, foreign urge to reach out and smooth out the crease between it. “No, I mean when you- when you pulled me out. What did you see?”

Castiel tilts his head to the side as he considers his answer. “There are not many words to describe the darkness one can encounter in Hell, Dean. You should know this. But,” Castiel continues on when he sees Dean open his mouth to interrupt. “When I found you in Hell it was indescribable. Your soul is brilliant.”

“Brilliant?”

“Dazzling,” Castiel supplies. “Bright. Overwhelming. Your soul is beautiful, Dean, and it was the greatest honor of my life to be able to witness it. Hell’s wickedness could never touch it.”

Dean’s breath catches in his chest. He is visibly trembling, and for a moment, Castiel worries he’s injured. But after a quick check he finds no, he’s not injured anywhere; he seems to be only overcome with emotion.

“Dean,” Castiel begins, voice softening in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. “You feel no pain. Your body was destroyed, but your soul persisted. What did they do to you?”

A single tear rolls down Dean’s cheek, and when he speaks, his voice shakes. “Goodbye, Castiel.”

It is a clear dismissal. Castiel doesn’t push it- this is more than he’s gotten from Dean in months. He disappears from the car, watches from the shadows how the moment he’s gone Dean lets the rest of his tears flow freely, like he was just barely keeping them in. 

-:-

_Castiel._

Castiel glances up at the sound of Naomi’s ringing voice from where he’s watching Dean sleep. It is an entirely selfish indulgence, one Dean would surely chastise him for if he ever found out about it. He has woken up once or twice to Castiel looming over him, unblinking, and told him it wasn’t a ‘normal’ thing for humans to watch each other sleep. Castiel thinks it’s okay to do as long as Dean doesn’t know how often he does it.

 _Yes?_ He asks, returning his gaze to the steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest, the expansion of his ribs as he continues breathing in his sleep. A solid and comforting reminder that he is alive.

_We have obtained new information on how the sword was broken in Hell._

Castiel’s head snaps up immediately, and although he can’t see anything but the water-stained motel ceiling, he can still hear the tittering echoes of his angel brethren, all of them listening in with bated breath, their attention focused on any information regarding the Michael sword.

 _Where have you obtained this information?_ Castiel asks. It’s not the most important question, but a few angels seem suspicious of the origin as well.

If he could see her, Castiel is sure Naomi would be ruffling her feathers, insulted that he questioned her sources. _We spread the word all over that we were looking for information on the sword’s time in Hell. A demon reached out to Zachariah claiming they had been present during the sword’s stay._

Castiel tastes something bitter in his mouth at the word _stay,_ like Hell was a vacation Dean took from his normal life and not almost forty years of unimaginable suffering.

 _Well?_ He demands, no longer patient enough to be respectful. _What did the demon say?_ _  
_ Naomi pauses. Then, she says, _The demon said physical pain did nothing to the sword’s body or soul, so they used psychological torture to break him down._

Castiel looks down at Dean’s face, calm and slack in his sleep. But he’s not relaxed; his brow twitches, his mouth curves downwards, and every few minutes his lips move around words that never come out. Castiel has never thought Dean was having peaceful dreams- how could he after what he went through?- but Naomi’s words were confirmation enough that Dean was most likely suffering from nightmares of some sort of hellish psychological warfare used against him in perdition.

A surge of protectiveness rushes through Castiel’s vessel. It is so strong and sudden that he is sure the other angels can sense it. There’s hushed whispering amongst them, but Castiel can’t focus on them through the abrupt, blind rage that joins the protectiveness. Anger like he’s never known, and the unrelenting desire coursing through his grace to tear whomever hurt Dean atom from atom.

 _Castiel-_ Naomi begins, but Castiel cuts her off, unfurling his wings and curling them protectively around himself and Dean. It effectively wraps them in a bubble of complete silence, the only noise the whistling of Dean’s breath as he turns gently in his sleep onto his side.

Castiel keeps his wings wrapped around them for a long time, breathing deeply through his vessel and channeling his grace to calm the almost violent emotions he was feeling. These were human emotions, and he wasn’t used to them, at least not in such strong, visceral doses.

At one point in the night, Dean rolls onto his back and opens his eyes. Those green galaxies meet Castiel’s gaze, and for a moment, Dean simply blinks up at him, eyes startlingly clear for someone who had just woken up.  
“Dean,” Castiel whispers, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and these new, human emotions are still swirling around inside him, tangling with his grace.

Dean takes in Castiel’s wings around them, a cocoon of black and grey feathers. He takes in Castiel’s expression, twisted and concerned, and the way his hands are fisted in the sheets, like if he lets go something terrible might happen.

“Angel,” Dean murmurs in reply. He reaches up and slides a hand over Castiel’s cheek- his palm is cool and soft, and his fingers curl to scratch at Castiel’s scalp. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

His hand falls back down to his side, and just like that he slips back into unconsciousness, almost like he was asleep the entire time. 

Castiel is so surprised by Dean’s words, by the implication that _Castiel_ is the one in need of comfort and not the other way around, that he almost misses the way his grace sings and glows when Dean touches him. 

Almost.

-:-

If Dean remembers Castiel watching him sleep, he doesn’t mention it the next morning, or the day after that. It’s only two days after, when Castiel has had enough time to simmer himself into a tumultuous rage over the possibilities of Dean’s torture in Hell, that the topic comes up.

They’re hunting a djinn, following a trail of lifeless, comatose bodies and missing persons. They’re sitting in the car, Dean in the front seat and Castiel in the back, as Sam fills up the gas tank outside. Dean’s fingers tap an uneven rhythm against the steering wheel, his knee bouncing, clear indications of his restlessness- or agitation? Castiel wasn’t sure which, and wasn’t sure why he felt it was the proper moment to bring up Hell, but the words are slipping out before he can stop himself.

“Dean,” He says, and he sees the way Dean jumps, like he forgot he wasn’t alone. Castiel meets his gaze in the rearview mirror, counts the lines in the creases of his eyes and wonders if they existed before Dean died. If the aftermath of his time in Hell was visible in ways that didn’t manifest as cuts and bruises and scars. “I have a question for you.”

“Okay,” Dean says, already sounding hesitant.

“I recently spoke with another angel,” Castiel continues, keeping his face carefully blank despite the storm of emotions rolling inside him. “They informed me that they spoke to a demon that crossed paths with you in Hell.”

Dean’s head jerks back so he can look at Castiel properly, not just through the mirror. His face slides into one that is also carefully composed, his lips pressed thinly together and his brow furrowed. “And? What did the demon say?”

Castiel swallows. Outside, there is the clicking of the gas pump as Sam returns the nozzle to its place and screws on the gas tank cap. Inside the car, it is tensely silent.

“They said,” Castiel’s lips form around the words like they are foriegn and unpracticed. He is surprisingly nervous for how Dean is going to react. “That because physical torture would not work on you, they used psychological torture instead. Tortured your mind.”

Dean doesn’t respond. He just stares at Castiel, his eyes almost blank and hazey, like he’s remembering something that’s transported him somewhere that isn’t the car. He is silent for so long that Sam gets back in the car, grumbling about the price of gas, and ends up catching himself mid-sentence when he immediately catches the tension between them.

“Dean?” Sam asks, gently, eyes flickering between where Dean is frozen and place and Castiel watches him, unblinking. Sam reaches out, hand gentle as he places it on Dean’s shoulder in a show of comfort and concern. Castiel is overcome with the urge to be that gentle, to be able to reach out and offer some sort of familiar comfort to Dean like Sam can. 

Dean blinks back to life when Sam touches him, his eyes sliding back to normal and his face setting into hard lines. His gaze turns into a glare, and he looks at Castiel with all the ferocity of the first time they met. 

“What’s your question, Cas?” He asks, voice monotone and leaving no room for discussion.

Castiel levels his gaze, tries to match Dean’s intensity with all the human emotion he can muster. “Was the demon right, Dean? Is that how they broke you?”

Sam lets out a noise of confusion, whipping around to look at Dean. Dean doesn’t respond again. Instead, he turns around and turns the car engine on, the rumbling of the Impala the only sound between the three of them.

Finally, as he shifts the car into park, he says, without looking at him, “Get the fuck out of my car, Cas, and don’t come back.”

 _“Dean,”_ Sam begins, but Dean shoots him such a dark look that even Sam has the gall to look chastised.

Castiel vanishes before either of them say anything else. He watches the car from above, watches it pull out of the gas station and turn back onto the open road. His heart pounds viciously against his ribcage, his vessel’s fingers trembling minutely. He squeezes his eyes shut and slides into his trueform for a moment, simply to escape these overwhelming human emotions that seem to plague his vessel

It doesn’t help, but he can at least pretend.

-:-

Sam prays to Castiel, one night when Dean is asleep. Castiel considers not answering, solely because he has been watching over the both of them quietly unseen, and he thinks it’s better that way. But Sam sounds so earnest and desperate, Castiel appears before him on the cold sidewalk outside their dingy motel room. The sky is clear and there’s a biting wind against Castiel’s face. Sam’s own cheeks are tinted pink, and he looks tired, more tired than someone his age should.

Sam asks Castiel to continue watching over Dean. It’s a kind sentiment, one that Castiel is sure he would take time to appreciate more if he wasn’t already doing just that. Nevertheless, he agrees easily, tells Sam that he will always be here to keep them safe. To keep Dean safe.

It goes on like that for almost two weeks. Anytime Dean gets injured, Castiel waits until he’s deeply asleep to appear, channels his grace into his fingers and heals Dean’s body with all the reverence of a holy man touching something hallowed and sacred. Sam catches him, once, with his hand laid on Dean’s chest, healing a broken rib. The younger man doesn’t even blink, and if he sees the way Castiel looks at Dean like he is something brilliant and not just a human man, he says nothing.

It all comes to a head when Dean, stupidly, gets viciously wounded by a shapeshifter, and is dragged into their motel room with a broken leg and a slice on his neck that is dangerously close to his jugular.

It is all heavily reminiscent of just a few weeks ago, when Dean had almost died in Castiel’s arms with his belly torn open. Castiel appears without thinking, hovering like a nervous mother waiting to deliver first aid as Sam deposits Dean gently on the bed.

“Fuck off, Cas,” Dean snaps, the sharpness of his words diluted by the way he struggles to breathe around the gash on his neck, and all of a sudden Castiel is _furious._

“You stupid, useless human,” Castiel snarls, and he’s shoving Sam out of the way before he can think about it, the younger man stumbling as the angel inserts himself into Dean’s personal space. He can feel his grace thrumming, ferocious and angered, his eyes glowing hot white blue as it tries to contain itself within his vessel. Dean holds his gaze, but cowers slightly, like he’s forgotten what Castiel is, what _he_ is. “You are possibly the most idiotic, selfish, ungrateful human I have ever crossed paths with.”

“Say what you really feel, Cas,” Dean bites out sarcastically. Castiel grabs a hold of Dean’s broken leg with more force than necessary, the sound of Dean’s bone cracking even further loud in the room. Sam jerks forward, but Castiel quickly heals it, his palm flashing against Dean’s jeans, blood staining his skin.

“I will,” Castiel growls. “I pulled you out of _Hell,_ Dean Winchester. I can easily throw you back in. I brought you back for a purpose, and your selfish thanklessness is not something that I appreciate while trying to achieve it.”

“And what purpose is that?” Dean asks, eyes fierce. Castiel curves his hand around Dean’s neck, around the wound, and Dean reaches up to grab Castiel’s wrist like he thinks he’s strong enough to pull him off. “What reason did you have to pull _me_ out of Hell?”

“I’m only here to find out how Hell broke you,” Castiel spits, channeling too much grace into his hands to heal Dean’s neck and accidentally flashing white blue light so bright Dean flinches at it. “I am not here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed again, Dean. I’m here to find out how they tortured you to a breaking point, how they made you so weak that you snapped and broke the first seal.”

Dean freezes. Castiel freezes as well, realizing what he said. Behind them, Sam whispers, “...The first seal?”

Castiel removes his hand from Dean’s neck slowly, already missing the warmth of his skin. His hand drips blood onto the sheets. Dean stares at him like he’s terrified of him. His face contorts into several different emotions before settling on what seems to be betrayal.

“Get away from me, Castiel,” Dean breathes out, and it is more unsettling than any of the other times he’s said it, his voice trembling quietly, soft and full of restrained fury. “Get the fuck away from me. If you ever come near me again, I will kill you. I swear I will.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at him. Inside, his grace screams and twists, the human emotions filling up his vessel strangling it to the point it’s almost painful.

“I’d love to see you try,” Castiel says, and vanishes for what must be the last time.

-:-

Castiel, for all of his fury and power, is an angel of simple decisions. And despite him vanishing from the brothers' view, he still keeps an eye on them. He can’t put a reason to it; he came to the decision sometime between the first time he met Dean, and the time Dean prayed to him from the Impala, and he’s going to stick to it. He is aware that Dean probably hates him, and Sam is too concerned with his brother’s happiness to bother him about bringing Castiel back, not when Dean sounded so adamant about killing Castiel if he saw him again. But Dean’s hatred doesn’t impact Castiel’s decision.

And so he watches, silently, and hopes against hope that Dean won’t do anything too stupid again.

He reports back to Naomi a few days after his argument with Dean, mostly because he feels he needs time to recover. It is a strange feeling; he has never felt the need to recover from something emotionally draining, because he’s never experienced emotions. Not like this, not to such a strong extent that they overwhelm him and make it feel like the throat of his vessel is closing up and his grace is vibrating to get out of him and escape them.

_Naomi._

Her response is instantaneous. _Yes, Castiel? Has the sword spoken of Hell?_

 _No,_ Castiel can feel the judgement of the other angels listening, the implication that he is not strong enough for such a simple mission. _It is impossible to get Dean to speak of Hell._

 _Dean?_ Naomi echoes, and Castiel winces at his mistake.

 _The sword is distrustful of angels,_ Castiel explains. _He does not wish to speak of what happened in Hell with me, especially._

Naomi sighs, and it is a sound that makes Castiel feel particularly small and useless. _It is disappointing that you couldn’t gather this simple information, Castiel. But no worries; we’ll handle it and clean up your mess._

Castiel thinks about correcting her from calling it “his mess”, defending himself, but he can’t find in himself to care. He hums an affirmation that he’s heard her, then curls his wings around himself in a protective cocoon, effectively shutting out the whispers of the other angels murmuring about his failure.

Below, in the Impala, Dean laughs at something Sam says, a map spread out amongst the dashboard, the open road ahead of them. Castiel closes his eyes and focuses on the sound of it.

-:-

Not a few days later, it all falls apart.

Castiel is watching Dean stalk through an abandoned barn, peering around corners, his gun held poised and ready. He and Sam are hunting a rugaru in a nearly abandoned farmtown, nothing but corn fields and cows for miles. He and Sam split up outside the barn, Sam taking the main house and Dean taking the barn, and now Castiel watches Dean move about like a predator hunting its prey. 

There is a flash of white blue light in one of the horse stalls, and when Dean rounds the corner, there is not a rugaru standing there. It is Zachariah.

Castiel feels something akin to terror drop into the pit of his stomach. Zachariah is smiling pleasantly, looking unalarming and not the least bit threatening in the vessel of a balding, middle aged man in a suit. Behind his back, he brandishes his blade, hidden from Dean’s view.

Dean looks at the man, confused, before lowering his gun just the slightest bit. “You’re not a curvy brunette in her 30’s,” He says, which is such a Dean way to greet someone.

Zachariah laughs, but it sounds stilted. “No, I’m not the rugaru you’re hunting, Dean.”

Dean frowns at him. “You know my name.”

“Of course I know your name,” Zachariah flashes him an unpleasant looking smile. “You are the righteous man, the sword of Michael. Dean Winchester.”

“The what of who?” Dean asks.

Zachariah’s grin falters. “Did Castiel not tell you of your fate?”

At Castiel’s name, Dean’s face hardens, his gaze turning sharp. “Who are you?” He demands.

Zachariah seems to ignore his question, instead shrugging to himself. “Ah, well. You’ll know it soon enough,” He looks back up at Dean, eyes flashing white blue, and adds, “Really, terribly sorry about this, Dean,” in a voice that does not sound sorry at all.

Before Dean can open his mouth to reply, Zachariah lurches forward and plunges his blade directly into Dean’s heart.

 _“No!”_ Castiel shouts, appearing without warning as Zachariah pulls the blade back out with a sickly squelching sound. “Dean!”

“Castiel,” Zachariah greets him, in a way one might when running into an old friend in public. “I shouldn’t be surprised to see you.”

Dean is still just standing there, looking shocked, eyes huge. He opens his mouth to speak, and instead a dribble of blood comes out, and he coughs, falling to his knees.

“What have you done?!” Castiel gasps, dropping to his knees as well to catch Dean in his arms. “What have you done?!”

Zachariah pulls a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, wipes his blade down carefully with it. The red of Dean’s blood is stark against the cream white silk. “Do not worry, Castiel- it’s all part of Heaven’s plan.”

“Killing him wasn’t part of the plan!” Castiel snaps. He presses the hand that isn’t holding Dean up against the wound, but it does nothing, his grace charging up and dying feebly. He can’t heal an angel blade wound and both he and Zachariah know it.

In his arms, Dean coughs, and a tiny bit of blood splatters against Castiel’s cheek.

“He will remain in his own Heaven until Michael is ready for him,” Zachariah explains. “Until then, he will be blissfully unaware of the troubles on Earth. It was Naomi’s idea,” He looks absurdly pleased with himself, smiling like he’s just told Castiel how to win a game of chess.

Castiel can’t even begin to think of a response. Zachariah doesn’t seem to expect one; Castiel hears the ruffle of Zachariah’s feathers as he vanishes, but he keeps his eyes on Dean, who’s staring up at him with something similar to wonder.

“Dean,” Castiel says, for lack of anything else. “Dean, I’ve got you, it’s okay. You’re going to be alright.”

Dean opens his mouth to speak again, but nothing comes out. He does it once, twice, and finally on the third try, he manages to rasp out, “Angel.” 

“Dean,” Castiel says again, and his voice breaks heavily. Another terrifyingly human trait.

Around the corner, Castiel hears the barn doors smash open, and Sam calls out, “Dean?!” in a panicked voice.

He rounds the corner a second later, coming to a short stop when he finds Dean in Castiel’s arms, bleeding out, Castiel’s hand slipping in the fresh blood on his chest.

“Dean,” Sam gasps, horror dawning on his face. “Castiel, heal him!”

“I can’t,” Castiel grits out, and Sam looks as terrified as Castiel feels. “It’s from an angel blade. My grace doesn’t work on it.”

Sam drops to his knees as well, his hands reaching out to cover Castiel’s, applying pressure like it might help. “Okay, okay, let’s help him up, we can get him to a hospital.”

“Sammy, stop,” Dean gets out, brow furrowed. His eyes are startlingly clear for someone who had just been stabbed through the heart, but then again, he probably didn’t feel any of it. “Let it go.” 

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam snaps, eyes welling with tears. “Shut the hell up.”

“Already been to hell,” Dean jokes, but it’s cut short when he coughs up more blood and some of it lands on his own face. “Oh, gross.”

“Stop talking, Dean,” Castiel commands. It sounds weak to his own ears, and Dean just laughs, a terrible sound when the bubbles of blood in his throat gurgle along with it.

“Just let it happen,” Dean repeats. He reaches up, then, hand shaky and cold, and presses it to Castiel’s cheek. Castiel leans into it openly, closes his eyes and tries to channel more grace into the wound. It flashes weakly beneath he and Sam’s hands. “Angel, look at me.”

Castiel opens his eyes to meet Dean’s gaze. Despite clearly being on his last breath, the human’s green eyes are fierce and bright, and they swirl with an emotion that Castiel can’t place. Castiel lets out a noise that sounds like a wounded animal, slipping out before he can control it.

“Love you,” Dean breathes out, his body going limper and limper in Castiel’s arms. “I love you, Angel. I’ll see you real soon, okay?” 

The noise that Castiel lets out is closer to a sob than anything. Dean’s hand drops from his face and his eyes dull out to lifeless and blank so quickly Castiel can’t do anything but sob again. Sam has gone as deathly still beside them, his hand clenched over Castiel’s, eyes fixed on Dean’s face.

“Dean,” Sam says, voice unnaturally calm. “Dean, wake up.”

Castiel closes his eyes to the sight in front of him.

“Dean,” Sam repeats. “Stop it.”

Castiel’s grace wails inside him. It tears viciously at his vessels insides, clawing to get out, to reach out to Dean and bring him back. His veins thrum with it, his hands shake, and when he opens his eyes he can feel them glowing bright hot white blue.

He squeezes Sam’s hand in the only comfort he can offer, and vanishes.

It is frighteningly easy to get into Dean’s Heaven. No angel even blinks at him as he passes; he is barely thrown a gaze, the word spread too easily of his disappointment and failure at obtaining important information on the sword of Michael. It allows him to move through Heaven with ease, slide past judgemental eyes and cold shoulders until he comes to a halt before the door that reads _‘DEAN WINCHESTER, 1979-2008’_.

He isn’t sure what he expects. In fact, he’s not sure he expects anything. He doesn’t think he knows enough about Dean’s past to properly place what Dean’s Heaven is going to look like. If he could guess, he would say it looks like the open road, with Sam by his side, conquering monsters and having a family and a home to return to at the end of the day.

He is so very, very wrong. He opens the door to Dean’s heaven and comes face to face with himself.

It is a familiar scene. He is sitting in the Impala, in the backseat, and Dean is in the driver’s seat. What he assumes is a Heaven version of himself is sitting in the passenger seat, gaze turned on Dean. The engine hums, the night quiet, and Castiel recognizes this night as the night Dean had prayed to him for the first time.

“Your soul is beautiful, Dean,” Heaven Castiel is saying. “And it was the greatest honor of my life to be able to witness it. Hell’s wickedness could never touch it.”

Dean swallows thickly. His eyes turn glassy, and instead of him dismissing the angel, like Castiel remembers it, he reaches out with his palm open and allows Heaven Castiel to take his hand gently.

“I love you, Dean,” Heaven Castiel whispers. He brings Dean’s hand up to his face, presses his lips to the back of it and murmurs against it, “You are a very brave man.”

Dean smiles, something vulnerable and sweet, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

Castiel blinks, and the Heaven warps and shifts around him. He is moved to a new scene, one he has never seen before. Dean stands in a kitchen, an apron tied around his waist, frowning down at what looks like something burnt in a pie dish on top of the stove. Behind him, Heaven Castiel wraps his around Dean’s waist and presses his lips to Dean’s neck.

“I burnt it,” Dean says, almost pouting, an expression Castiel never thought he’d see on the man’s face.

Heaven Castiel laughs gently. “That’s alright. It’ll taste the same to me.”

Dean looks grumpily at the burnt dish before turning in Heaven Castiel’s arms. “That’s not the point, though. The art of cooking it is as important as the end result.”

“Did you hear that from Sam?” Heaven Castiel asks, thumbing over Dean’s hip and brushing gentle kisses to Dean’s cheeks.

“No. Yes. Maybe,” Dean’s face flushes pink, and he twists his fingers in Heaven Castiel’s shirt, looking embarrassed. “Shut up.”

Heaven Castiel laughs again, leans in to kiss Dean properly. The Heaven around Castiel warps and shifts again, and this time he is thrown through several scenes, some of them brand new, some of them familiar but different. There’s a scene of Dean delicately grooming Castiel’s wings as Castiel nods off happily in front of him; a scene of the night Dean had gotten his broken wrist healed by Castiel, but this time Castiel presses his lips to the tiny bones beneath the skin and his grace flashes through his mouth and heals Dean intimately; a scene of Dean asleep in the backseat of the Impala with his head in Castiel’s lap; a scene of Dean and Castiel slow dancing in an unknown living room in the early hours of the morning, the lights off and the radio playing something old and romantic.

Castiel is finally placed in a field. It sprawls and sprawls, beautiful and looming, all around him. In the distance, there are barely visible mountains. The field is full of flowers and plants, overgrown and joyous and bursting with color. The sun shines brightly above, big, fluffy white clouds floating just out of reach. A cool breeze blows against his skin, ruffles his hair and turns his head in the direction of the only tree in sight.

Beneath the tree Dean and his Heaven version of Castiel lay. Heaven Castiel lays on his back, his wings spread completely open and bare, stretching to their full size around them. He is clearly asleep, his face slack and peaceful- Dean is tucked into his side, his palm flat against Heaven Castiel’s chest, like he’s watching the expanding of his ribs, counting the thumping of his heartbeat. Castiel can relate, thinking back to watching Dean sleep, comforted by the mere sight of him breathing.

Castiel has to swallow down something that forms in his throat. He takes in the look Dean is giving the Heaven version of himself, that same unidentified emotion that he so often looked at Castiel with in life. He is hit with the terribly overwhelming, undeniable realization of what that emotion is. Love. That emotion Dean has been looking at since he met him has been love.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes out, daring to come closer to the peaceful scene.

Dean blinks in confusion when he spots Castiel. He sits up, Heaven Castiel’s feathers rustling beneath him, and looks between the two angels. “Cas?”

There’s a noise like lightning sizzling, and then Heaven Castiel shimmers like light caught on the water. He warps and fades slowly, like a hallucination, or a fog.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks.

Castiel doesn’t know how to respond. His heart beats against his chest, and he says, voice strangled, “You’re dead.”

Dean stares at him. “What?”

“You’re dead,” Castiel repeats. His grace shivers inside him, and suddenly he doesn’t think he can hold himself up. He drops to his knees before Dean, his vessel shaking. “You’re dead because I didn’t get to you in time.”

Dean looks at him for a very long moment, lips pursed thoughtfully. Then, he says, “I don’t think that’s right.”

“What?” Castiel says this time, echoing Dean’s confusion.

Dean reaches out, takes Castiel’s hands in his own easily, like it’s something they’ve done a million times before. “It sounds… right, that I’m dead. It’s hazy. But I don’t think it was your fault. Did you kill me?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, of course not, but if I had-”

“Yeah, there’s no buts here,” Dean laughs, a beautiful sound, especially in comparison to the last time Castiel heard it, struggling through the blood running out of his mouth. “If you didn’t shove that blade into my chest, then it’s absolutely not your fault.” He pauses, then, looking surprised at his own words. “Oh. I guess I really am dead.”

“Dean, I have to tell you something,” Castiel says. He grips Dean’s hands tightly, suddenly wondering why they had never done this before. Dean’s hands were warm in his, calloused but soft, and he squeezed Castiel’s hands back gently. “You are the sword of Michael. The angels had you killed to keep you prisoner in your own Heaven until Michael could bring you back to life to use you.”

Dean frowns. “Use me for what?”

“You’re the sword,” Castiel explains. “Your body is the perfect vessel for the archangel Michael. He needs your consent, but he plans to use you as a vessel for himself for an upcoming war.”

“War? What war?”

“It’s a war between Heaven and Hell,” Castiel closes his eyes, tries not to think of Michael using Dean’s body- the body that Castiel had so carefully and _lovingly_ put back together piece by piece- as a vessel for so much destruction. “It starts when you are broken in Hell.”

Dean’s eyes flash with hurt, and it is the most response Castiel has ever seen at the mention of Hell. “Oh.”

“You were broken in Hell, Dean,” Castiel murmurs. “Right?”

Dean swallows. He drops his gaze to where he holds Castiel’s hands, and for a long moment, he says nothing. Somewhere, distantly, a sparrow sings.

“Do you know about soulmates?” Dean asks.

Castiel blinks at him. “I am aware that there are people fated by the universe and tied through the fabric of time and space to end up together.”

Dean gives him a startled look, then snorts. “I mean, that’s one way to put it. But, um,” He shifts, squeezes Castiel’s hand tighter. “In Hell, they showed me visions.”

Castiel nods as if to say _go on,_ not daring to speak.

“They showed me visions to torture me because the physical torture wouldn’t work,” Dean takes a shakey breath. “They were of… I mean, they showed me you.”

“Me?” Castiel repeats.

“You,” Dean whispers. “I guess you could say we’re soulmates. They showed me visions of us, together. In love. Like this,” He gestures to the field around them, quickly taking Castiel’s hand again like he’s afraid if he doesn’t keep a tight hold on him Castiel will disappear. “Showed me a future I could have with you and how we were meant to be. For years. And then they,” Dean pauses, eyes getting shiny with tears. He looks away from Castiel, down to the ground. “They showed me things like you dying. A thousand different ways. I couldn’t stop it. And it was always my fault.”

Castiel feels like all of the breath has been punched out of his lungs. Without thinking, he reaches up and wipes at the tears on Dean’s face with his thumbs, cradling his face in his hands. “Oh, Dean…”

“You kept dying right in front of me,” Dean says, his voice breaking over a sob. “You kept dying in my arms, and I saw it so many times, Cas, and it was my fault, I couldn’t-” He lets out a broken noise, the tears flowing freer now. “I couldn’t do it anymore. When I saw you at Bobby’s place, when you first pulled me out, I just- I thought maybe if I told you to stay away from me, if we never got close, it would keep you safe. I wouldn't fuck up and get you killed and have to watch you die again.”

Castiel presses their foreheads together. Dean closes his eyes and hiccups through another sob, and Castiel feels his grace humming in happiness despite the clawing sadness in his vessel’s heart. “Look where that got us. Now you’re dead instead.”

Dean laughs wetly. “Yeah, but it’s still better than watching you die.”

“For you maybe,” Castiel smiles, partly to himself. His grace tingles in his fingertips as he touches Dean’s face. “I’d die a thousand times over if it means not having to see you die in my arms again.”

“Now you know how I feel,” Dean mumbles, before he leans up and kisses Castiel.

Castiel’s grace sings at the touch. He can feel it spreading through his limbs, from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, extending out to reach for Dean as well, wrapping the both of them up. In the sky, the sun brightens to an almost blinding degree. In the field, more flowers bloom as if out of nowhere, rapidly sprouting up around them and glowing with color.

Dean pulls back to look around, squinting against the sunlight. “Did you do that?” 

Castiel grins at him. “Yes.”

He reaches out again, because he can, settles his palm against the side of Dean’s throat and feels the heartbeat there against the thin skin. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before he opens them to meet Dean’s own dazzling green galaxies of eyes.

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel says. “Let’s go home.”

Dean smiles brilliantly at him- something that reminds Castiel warmly of his soul- and Castiel wraps them in his wings and holds Dean tight.

He drags Dean Winchester, down, down from Heaven, and it is reminiscent of when he pulled him out of the pits of hell- but this time, Castiel is loyal only to his soulmate, and the future is clear- together, no matter what. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic i've finished in over a year and half, so everybody say THANK YOU DESTIEL for motivating me to actually write again. also to the silent solidarity skype call for being silent in solidarity while i banged out the entire last half of this fic in 3 hours. 
> 
> the disease dean has is congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis (CIPA disease) and it's extremely rare, so i based most of what i wrote off what little research i could find.
> 
> thank you for reading, comments are appreciated!


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